


Pesante

by destielpasta



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel in the Bunker, Communication, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s11e03 The Bad Seed, First Kiss, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, coda fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 14:32:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5052190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destielpasta/pseuds/destielpasta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>pesante [peˈsante]: a musical term, meaning "heavy and ponderous."</p>
<p>Coda to Episode 3 of Season 11 "The Bad Seed"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pesante

What could bedrooms ever mean, to an angel?

Dean brought him to one, an hour earlier, saying that it was his, if he wanted it. Cas noted the blush that crept up Dean’s neck while he stuttered, as if the words held something heavier within them, something unsaid.

Castiel stands in the middle of it now, in the same place where Dean had left him almost fifteen minutes ago. He takes inventory of all the items in the room–  a bed covered in a blue blanket, an empty chest of drawers, a night stand with a lamp perched on top of it–  and tries to see the use in them. The only clothes he had were on his back and he still didn’t sleep, tired as he is.

Within minutes he finds himself wandering the bunker halls, his legs moving slow but his boredom driving him to investigate. He’s been to the library, the basement, the showers, and to the kitchen to microwave a burrito when was a human. Now he finds empty bedrooms with dusty beds and furniture (Dean or Sam must have aired his out at some point), storage rooms stacked high with crates tagged with ancient runes, and, after climbing a spiral staircase, an observatory containing an old but functioning telescope.

He peers through the lens, remembering their positioning in the midwest and searching for familiar stars. What he finds is dull and misshapen by the dirt caked to the telescope, and he backs away after a few moments, wiping dust from his eye. If he were to stay here their observatory would need some work–

If he were to stay here.

He lets the thought wash over him, and strangely enough, it comes with the memory of feeling wind rush under his wings. The feeling of leaving, of moving on. He can’t feel it now, possibly would never again. He scuffs his feet against the floor as he descends down the staircase into the quiet library.

Sam left one lamp on in the main room, and Castiel wonders if that’s a habit. If leaving one light on made the bunker feel safer, or more normal, or something like a home.

Maybe Sam had simply forgotten the lamp. Maybe it’s meant to be off at night, like all the other lights. Should he turn it off? Should he leave it?

He deliberates, staring at the light until spots burst from behind his eyes, looking away only when he hears shuffling behind him.

“Cas?”

He turns, greeted by the sight of Dean in loose fitting sweatpants and a t-shirt with a slightly worn out neckline. Large headphones cover his ears, and when he removes them to let them hang around his neck sound blares from the open speakers.

“You ok?” he asks, stepping closer.

Stepping closer ultimately leads Dean further into the small circle of light, drawing his bruised face into sharp relief. A pit forms in Castiel’s stomach, and he fights the urge to step back.

“I heard the stairs creaking,” Dean says, as if Castiel was looking for an explanation.

“Yes,” he says quickly, shoving his hands into his pocket, “You a have a telescope.”

Dean smiles, wincing slightly at how the motion pulls at his face. “Yeah. Haven’t looked at it much. Figure we get enough trouble from upstairs.”

“Thankfully, the sky has little to do with heaven,” Castiel finds himself saying, “The universe itself houses heaven, but there are plenty of places you could go that are beyond its influence. I used to–  well I used to.”

Dean doesn’t respond at first, reaching into his pocket to quiet his music. They’re left in silence.

“Wanna tell me about it?” he asks after a few moments, beckoning Castiel towards the kitchen.

Dean makes them several stacks of toast with peanut butter, moving about the kitchen with ease as Castiel talks. He tells him about flying across the cosmos, evading Heaven and his duties to find something greater. He reminisces about old civilizations, of trying to save mankind from heavenly onslaughts time and time again.

The memories are distant, as if seen through frosted glass and Castiel realizes that they’re memories that were wiped away by angels like Naomi, that he isn’t technically supposed to have. They spill from him as if they’ve been on the tip of his tongue for years, waiting for someone to listen. Namely, waiting for Dean to want to listen.

And he does–  through all the fragments and half-stories Castiel manages to remember. He takes it all in and Castiel takes in two slightly burnt pieces of peanut butter toast. They even taste decent.

“What I don’t get,” Dean says when he can get a word in, “Is how after all that, you could sit here and eat toast as if it were the most normal thing in the world.”

Castiel thinks for a moment, still chewing. He swallows, catching Dean’s eye before he speaks.

“Normal for me was traversing the galaxies. Feeling unsettled, never truly knowing the meaning of home was the norm. This–” he gestures around him–  the humming refrigerator, creaking pipes, “is a novelty to me.”

A strange expression crosses over Dean’s face at that. Castiel had expected amusement, a laugh. Instead, Dean swallows his own toast, grabbing his and Castiel’s plate and carrying them to the sink.

“Dean?” Castiel asks to the back of his head.

“Just gimme a minute,” he says, pouring what Castiel is sure is an unnecessarily large amount of dish soap on their barely-soiled plates. He washes them slowly and carefully, stacking them in the rack next to the sink. He grips the counter after he finishes, the outline of his shoulders tense underneath his thin shirt.

“Stay,” he says, his grip tightening enough to show the whites of his knuckles.

Castiel freezes, confusion and indecision flooding his mind.

“What?”

Dean turns around, his neck a flare of red and his arms awkward by his side.

“Stay here,” he says, eyes wide, “You don’t have to leave. Or go on some mission by yourself. You can take us with you. Or just–  stay here.”

Castiel feels the ache in his chest, the one reserved specifically for Dean Winchester, grow until it reaches down to his toes. He remembers the feeling of having the telescope eyepiece pressed against his face–  how foreign it had felt, how old it had felt.

Perhaps this is why.

He gets up slowly, his body still tired from the effects of the spell, but he can’t imagine letting Dean stand by himself for any longer.

“Stay here?” He rephrases Dean’s statement, turning it up at its corners and asking it back to him.

Dean nods, the motion frantic. “Not even here specifically. Just with us. Practice making a home.”

The sentences are fragments, incomplete and experimental, but Castiel gleans what meaning he can from them. He takes in the sight of Dean–  impossibly soft, impossibly here–  and feels his first true moment of relief.

“Ok,” Castiel says, nodding.

“Ok,” Dean repeats, a smile breaking out onto his face. He reaches up, patting Castiel on the shoulder. His hand travels, moving from his shoulder to his neck, holding him there.

Castiel wonders when this motion had become part of their repertoire of shoulder touches and brief hugs–  from a moment of trauma to a moment of happiness. If it has–  then maybe there could be more.

“Dean I–” he starts, trying to find the words, the right language itself even. Instead he stops, swallowing back a lump in his throat so that they come out clearly. “I want us to stop hurting each other.”

Dean nods again, and his other hand comes up to the other side of Castiel’s face. He squeezes gently, and Castiel can feel the pull. He doesn’t make Dean finish it alone.

It’s certainly the softest kiss he’s ever experienced, what with Dean holding onto his face with reverence befitting something holy. Castiel can taste the bruises and his hurt, his own doing, but he also tastes peanut butter and wheat and something that must just be Dean behind it all. When he finds it, his own hands come up, grasping at Dean’s shirt, feeling just how soft he had expected it to be.

He answers back with a gasp of his own as Dean inhales against his mouth, quickly removing his headphones from around his neck and tossing them to the ground, backing them up slowly to press against the refrigerator. Castiel feels his heart jump forward as Dean presses the whole line of his body against his, tilting his head just so that their mouths can slot together. He grips harder at Dean’s sides, feeling the flex of muscle and bone underneath his hands as Dean shudders.

They break away for a moment, and Dean rests his head against Castiel’s neck, shoulder his breath warm against his skin

“You ok?” he asks, mirroring his earlier question, this time breathless.

Castiel releases his hands from Dean shirt, bringing them up to cup Dean’s face. Dean looks up, meeting his eyes again.

“Stay with me,” he says, stuttering over his words again, “I mean tonight. In my room.”

Castiel nods again, letting himself be led down the hallway to Dean’s bedroom, thinking that he can see the use in Dean’s bedroom, especially if he is there with him.

 

 


End file.
